


Bathtime

by rubyofkukundu



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bathroom Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-28
Updated: 2010-11-28
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:43:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyofkukundu/pseuds/rubyofkukundu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John catches Sherlock in the bath, but everything remains absolutely normal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bathtime

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted here: <http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/1318807.html>

Sherlock's limbs are pale, droplets of bathwater clinging to the skin, his legs bent at the knee so that he can fit into the tub. The rest of him should be pale too, his face, his neck, his chest, but it's not. No, the rest of Sherlock's skin is flushed pink, partly from the heat of the water, but mostly from the way he's touching himself, slowly, deliberately, long fingers curled around the length of his erection.  
  
Sherlock's eyes are closed and his lips are open. He's silent, but the bathwater makes a sloshing sound as he arches his back and angles his hips to get a better purchase.  
  
John can't look away.  
  
He knows he should; John knows he shouldn't be standing there, peering through the half-open door like some kind of dirty schoolboy while Sherlock's having a private moment, but it's almost as if John has lost control of his ability to do anything but watch.  
  
Sherlock's hand speeds up, fingers deft and light, and he tilts his head back, long neck stretching out, teeth biting his lower lip.  
  
 _Jesus._  
  
But John is not there on purpose. He was only passing down the corridor to get something out of the airing cupboard. It's not John's fault that Sherlock's forgotten that he's left the door open. It's not John's fault that the sight of Sherlock like this is so startling.  
  
Because John didn't know that Sherlock did this; didn't even consider that Sherlock would do anything so sexual. Sherlock isn't sexual; he's quick and clever and brilliant and even harsh sometimes, but he's never like this. Never relaxed and content and _aroused_ , his lips dark and cheekbones straining pink.  
  
Sherlock reaches down between his legs with his other hand, stroking lower, bathwater sloshing again. He licks his lips and says, voice hoarse, "Come in, John."  
  
John jumps, blushing to be caught red-handed, and he doesn't know what to do. He didn't mean to-- It's not _like that_. John is not interested and he's _not gay_ ; he just got caught up in the confusion over finding Sherlock doing something that John had never imagined that Sherlock would do.  
  
Sherlock's eyes open and he rolls his head towards the door. But John flees to the safety of the living room before Sherlock can make eye-contact.  
  
John spends the next half an hour feeling decidedly ashamed of himself. He turns on the TV, loud, and makes himself some toast, and does everything that he would normally do if this were a normal evening and everything was _normal_. John doesn't know if Sherlock is still in the bathroom or if he's finished and dressed or what. The TV is too loud for John to hear anything, and that's good because John _doesn't want_ to hear anything.  
  
God, how embarrassing. Flatmates are supposed to respect each other's privacy. You are not supposed to stand there like a peeping Tom, sneaking a look while he's in the bathroom, even if he _is_ called Sherlock and is normally mad as a loon and you were in no way expecting what you found. It's _rude_. John has stepped over a line of decency here and he feels extremely guilty about it. How would _he_ like it if the tables were turned and Sherlock caught _him_ masturbating?  
  
John doesn't want to think about Sherlock catching him masturbating.  
  
It's half an hour later, not that John's been counting, when Sherlock emerges in his pyjamas, his hair still damp, but his cheeks pale again. John is in the kitchen, making himself a cup of tea at the time. Sherlock coughs to catch his attention and John turns around to face him.  
  
Resolutely, John mentions nothing about the bathroom. Sherlock doesn't mention anything about the bathroom either. Consequently, the air is thick with their silence; it lasts for slightly longer than is comfortable, and John is not blushing, but then Sherlock asks, "How's the tea coming along?" and declares that some biscuits would be nice too.  
  
Gratefully, John turns and busies himself about making another cup, while Sherlock wanders into the living room and jumps into one of the armchairs.  
  
The TV is still loud, which is good, because John was watching it and not thinking about anything else, and when John enters the living room with two cups of tea, he finds Sherlock watching the TV too.  
  
When John passes Sherlock the mug, Sherlock's hand brushes John's, which is fine, because it's _normal_ , and John doesn't think about what else Sherlock has been doing with that hand this evening. With all the calm of someone who is _not thinking about anything_ , John goes back into the kitchen for the packet of digestives, and he doesn't take a few deep breaths while holding onto the kitchen counter.  
  
The rest of the evening is utterly uneventful. Sherlock doesn't have a case on, but he hasn't had long enough to discover his boredom, so he sits, tapping away on his laptop. John continues to watch TV, and it's utterly engrossing, even when that show about property prices comes on, which John can't normally stand.  
  
John stays up an hour later than he usually does, with Sherlock on his laptop the whole time, occasionally correcting the TV presenters on their grammar. When he does go to bed, John lies there and tries to think of nothing. He's almost successful, and he can almost pretend to himself that he's not half-hard.  
  
The next evening, when John comes home from work, Sherlock is in the bathroom again. This time though, the door is closed, which is a good thing. Very good. It can only be a good thing. John can hear splashing, which sounds like Sherlock is in the bath, probably washing his hair, rather than-- Well. John's not hanging around outside the bathroom just to listen anyway.  
  
This time, when Sherlock enters the living room in his pyjamas, his hair is damp _and_ his cheeks are still flushed, which suggests that it hasn't been long since he finished-- John surmises that the bath water must have been very hot for Sherlock to get pink like that. After all, John knows that his own skin turns that colour when he turns the shower up as hot as it will go.  
  
Sherlocks lips are damp and flushed too.  
  
John doesn't know if hot water alone will make someone lips turn _that_ dark.  
  
This time, when John goes to bed, he finds it difficult to get to sleep. He's uncomfortable, more than half-hard for reasons that have _nothing_ to do with his flatmate. And so, just for comfort's sake, John kicks off his pants and takes himself in hand.  
  
This is hardly unusual. It's far from the first time John has masturbated in his own bed, and he even keeps a few magazines especially for the purpose. He doesn't bother with those this time though; this time, John wants to be quick. So he uses his imagination instead, fantasises about lithe girls with big tits and hot, tight pussies; about dark-haired girls with agile fingers, pleasuring themselves with thick dildos; about pale girls with long, long limbs and skin shining with bathwater, cheeks pink and lips dark with arousal.  
  
What John _doesn't_ imagine, is what it would be like if Sherlock caught him masturbating; if John left the door open; if John told Sherlock to stop standing there and come in.  
  
When John reaches orgasm, gasping, erection straining in his fist, he doesn't think of anything. And he bites down on his lip so forcefully that it bleeds.  
  
The next day, the pace of things changes drastically. As soon as John's dressed, Sherlock drags him off to Liverpool Street Station, and from there they catch a train to Norwich. Sherlock's had an email from a lady with a missing son-in-law, and what ensues is a mad dash through Norwich's small streets, a body in the cathedral, and a syndicate of money launderers that takes hours to round up.  
  
When they're finally done, case closed and the paperwork left with the police, it's 11:30 in the evening and the next train back to London isn't for another six hours. With nothing else to do but wait, John and Sherlock check themselves into a hotel near the station and decide to call it a night.  
  
The room they get given is drab and small, with two single beds and no room to swing a cat, but they're lucky that they can get anything at this time of night, so John's not complaining. He kicks off his shoes, fills the kettle and rifles through the bedside cabinet to see if he can find the teabags. Sherlock, who's never shown much interest in the mechanics of tea-making, takes off his shoes, flings his coat onto one of the beds, and announces that he's taking a bath, before wandering into the en-suite bathroom.  
  
John doesn't think much of it; he's still too busy locating the tea bags, realising that there's no sugar and unsuccessfully attempting to get the television to work. He hears the bath being filled with water; he hears the soft rustle of clothes being removed; but it's only when he hears the splashing of Sherlock getting into the tub, that John realises that the reason he can hear all this is because Sherlock's left the bathroom door open again.  
  
The hairs on John's forearms stand on end.  
  
John can't see into the bathroom from where he's sitting on the bed, and it's-- It's good, because John doesn't care what Sherlock does in the bath anyway.  
  
There's a splash of water as Sherlock shifts in the tub, and the squeak of skin on plastic as he sinks down to get more comfortable.  
  
Wildly, John considers putting on his coat and _leaving_ ; he could go down to the bar, or go for a walk in the cold, night air, but leaving the room would mean walking past the bathroom door and catching a glimpse of Sherlock in the bath, and John doesn't want to do that _at all_. Frantically, John jabs at the remote control, trying to get the TV to work, but it doesn't even deign to give him static. The room is silent save for a heavy intake of breath and the slow drag of skin on skin emanating from the en-suite.  
  
John swallows thickly.  
  
There's a slight splash as Sherlock shifts in the tub again, another squeak of skin on plastic, and John finds himself rock hard in his pants for no reason whatsoever.  
  
Sherlock gives a shaky exhale and John flops back on the bed. He doesn't-- This isn't what it looks like. John undoes the buttons of his trousers and shoves them and his underwear down his hips. He's not doing this because of _Sherlock_ ; he's doing this because he's hard, and they're going to have to share a room all night, and the only chance that John is going to get to be able to deal with it is _now_ while Sherlock's distracted.  
  
John takes hold of his cock and tries hard not to suck in a breath through his teeth. He's so far gone already, hot and thick and flushed dark, and he's barely even touched himself.  
  
There's more splashing from the bathroom, the sound of skin on skin increases pace, and John squeezes his eyes tight, turning his head and gasping into the pillow.  
  
He's definitely not thinking about Sherlock. That much is certain. John is _not_ thinking about the way Sherlock looked two days before, all pale skin and flushed cheekbones and hips rocking; he's not thinking about Sherlock biting his lips and opening his eyes and saying, "Come in, John," like he means it.  
  
John's hand squeezes, tighter than he'd meant to, and he has to choke back a moan.  
  
From the bathroom, the sound of Sherlock stroking himself grows louder. His long, dreft fingers most be moving faster now. Fast enough that John can hear Sherlock panting. Fast enough that Sherlock's back is probably arching, his neck straining back, the flush of pleasure on his cheeks darkening.  
  
John's whole body jerks as his orgasm takes him by surprise. He gasps out into the pillow, hips rolling as he ejaculates over the bedcovers.  
  
The sound of legs shifting in the bathtub follows shortly afterwards, with the splash of a body shuddering and a heavy exhale.  
  
John opens his eyes, feeling cold and tired all over. Well. That's that. It was good that John could get it over with while Sherlock was out of the room; it'll save John some embarrassment later. He gets up, cleans down the bed with a tissue, turns the covers over, and pulls up his trousers.  
  
When Sherlock emerges from the en-suite bathroom ten minutes later, John is already asleep. Fast asleep, which means that John can't hold his breath while Sherlock pads across the room, and he can't feel his cheeks heating when the footsteps stop and Sherlock stands still for a few, long minutes as if he's watching something.  
  
It's good that John is asleep, because, otherwise, it would only be when there's a soft rustle of bedcovers and the sound of Sherlock getting into bed, that John would finally be able to relax again.  
  
The next morning is just as hectic as the one before. There's no time for breakfast because they have a train to catch. John and Sherlock check out of the hotel, board the train, and it's hardly even had time to pull out of the station before Sherlock gets a call from Lestrade.  
  
There's an arsonist on the loose; something about a school in Dalston and a bunch of personal files that have been taken from the headmaster's office.  
  
Sherlock spends the rest of the journey tapping away on his phone, and he delegates some of the research to John, which means that John doesn't have time to watch Sherlock's long, pale fingers out of the corner of his eye. They change trains at Stratford and make their way straight to the crime scene. Things get hectic from there on out: a trail leads them to Canary Wharf and the body of the arsonist floating in the river, and a further trail leads them back up to Stoke Newington and a man in a bar, who has the personal files, and also has a gun, which he seems set on discharging in Sherlock's general direction, and would have succeeded if Lestrade and the police back-up hadn't arrived in the nick of time.  
  
There follows the normal course of affairs: admonishments from Lestrade, police paperwork and a few jibes from Donovan; then there's a meal in a Thai restaurant down the road, in which Sherlock thrums with the excitement of a job well done and John finds it hard not to catch on to his enthusiasm.  
  
It's only really once they're back at Baker Street, and the adrenalin has died down, that John remembers himself enough to feel awkward about the night before-- Not that there was anything to feel awkward about. John changes his clothes, potters about the flat a bit, and realises how much he longs for a good sit down.  
  
Sherlock, in the mean time-- John doesn't care about what Sherlock does in the mean time. But it's not so long after they've arrived back that John hears the distinctive sound of the bath being filled with water.  
  
John takes a deep breath.  
  
But it's not like they're in a poky little hotel room with an en-suite any more; now, they're back in their flat, and the living room is quite a way from the bathroom, and with the TV on, John can't hear anything.  
  
Five minutes later finds John standing outside the bathroom door.  
  
He's got a perfectly valid reason to be there; he'd had to go to the airing cupboard for something, and there was no way it could have waited until later, and the bathroom door had just happened to be open as John walked past, and Sherlock had just happened to be in the bath at that moment, and now John is standing there watching as Sherlock's hand runs down his torso and takes hold of his cock.  
  
Sherlock opens his eyes and turns his head to look at him. "John," says Sherlock. "Come in."  
  
This time, his heart racing, John does.  
  
He steps into the humid heat of the bathroom and Sherlock curls his fingers around himself, breath hitching a little, cheeks pink and lips dark dark dark, just like John's been imagining for the past two nights.  
  
John tugs off his clothes and drops them into a heap on the floor. He should be worried about what he's doing, but he's not. Now's not the time to be thinking about guilt and shame and not wanting it, because now John is hard, and he's already stepping into the bath, fitting himself in-between Sherlock's long legs, and leaning down to catch those lips in a kiss.  
  
Sherlock hoists himself up to meet John halfway, teeth clashing with John's through the force of it, his mouth hot and slick and inviting.  
  
An amount of bathwater sloshes over the side of the bath as Sherlock pushes John back, his fingers curling around John's erection with a suddenness that makes John gasp into Sherlock's mouth, John's hands scrabbling to get a purchase on the side of the tub. Sherlock's fingers tighten and John breaks the kiss, his head falling back of its own accord and colliding with the cold tiles behind him.  
  
Panting, John rights himself again and surges forward in an endeavour to find a position that's more comfortable for the both of them. Sherlock's legs fold around him as he pushes Sherlock back and John straddles Sherlock's thighs, reaching down into the water to take Sherlock's cock in his hands.  
  
Sherlock licks his lips, gasps something that sounds a lot like, "John," and John almost has time to see a brief smile appear on Sherlock's face before they kiss again, messily, Sherlock's breath coming fast through his nose. Sherlock's hands find John's cock again quickly, and they're merciless this time, stroking hard and fast, fingers twisting over the head in a way that makes John's whole body shudder, pleasure coiling tight in his limbs.  
  
John breaks the kiss, dizzy with heat and arousal, pressing his face into the flushed skin of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock exhales heavily, breath warm and moist against John's ear, and he shifts a little, hips rising up to meet John's, the tip of his cock grazing John's abdomen. John rocks his own hips down in response and uncurls his fingers from around Sherlock's erection; Sherlock does the same and their hands find each other, fingers twining together and squeezing both cocks in a shared grip.  
  
Now, the hard line of Sherlock's erection drags heavy against John's in a way that makes John's limbs tense and his toes curl. Panting, John rolls his hips faster, presses a kiss to Sherlock's neck, and then presses another to Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock gasps out, "John," into John's hair, and it's only a second later that Sherlock's cock is twitching next to John's as Sherlock comes with a sigh.  
  
John looks down, gasps at the sight of it, bites back an obscenity at the _feel_ of it, tightens his fingers around them both and grinds down as hard as he can. Sherlock's whole body shakes at that, and his head falls back, eyes glassy and dark lips open, perfect for a kiss when John shudders as his own orgasm overtakes him.  
  
They stay as they are for a long moment until John breaks the kiss and leans his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder. John breathes out slowly. His head hurts from where it hit the tiles; the bathtub is uncomfortably crowded with the both of them in it; and the water is only lukewarm. Somewhere above John's ear, Sherlock snorts a laugh into John's hair.  
  
John giggles in return.  
  
"John," says Sherlock, and John laughs some more.  
  
"You--" says John. "Your legs are far too long for this bath." He sits back to prove his point, Sherlock's legs shifting awkwardly to accommodate him.  
  
Sherlock looks at John. John looks at Sherlock.  
  
They both smile.  
  
This time, when they both enter the living room, Sherlock's hair is damp and his cheeks are flushed, and John's are too. John turns on the TV and makes some tea and does everything that's normal. Sherlock sits cross-legged in an armchair, his laptop on his lap, and his hand brushes John's when John hands him his cup of tea, and that's normal too. Their eyes meet and they share another smile, and even though it might not have been normal until today, John has a feeling that he's going to be taking a lot more baths from now on.


End file.
